


Crashing Down

by SonofThrainSonofThror



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-28
Updated: 2015-05-16
Packaged: 2018-03-04 01:43:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,627
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2904674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SonofThrainSonofThror/pseuds/SonofThrainSonofThror
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With his best friend, and lover hospitalized, Sherlock is slowly fading away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Alright, so this is post-Reichenbach Fall, it also happens to be an AU without Mary Morstan.

The delicate strings bit into his waiting fingertips. Violin tucked under his chin, bow drawn, quivering in anticipation. One long deep breath, then he began. Softly at first, he teased the bow along the strings, relishing the vibrations echoing through the air.   
Slip into your mind palace.   
The crowd holds their breath, not daring to interrupt the specter before them. The beam of light shining down upon him causes beads of sweat to slip from his curls and dampen his collar. He’s not breathing either. It was a rather fast-paced, and complicated piece, and he couldn't bear to ruin it. Not now.   
The strings are straining, he’s already broken one. SNAP! He flinches and misses a note. Quickly, he recovers, and manages to finish the measure. The next few measures float by smoothly, and he finishes the piece.   
Cheers erupt from the audience, they’re on their feet, the concert hall swells with applause. “Thank… you…” he breathes. Roses are tossed, their petals scattering across the stage. He stoops and takes one in his shaking hands, before sweeping into a graceful bow.   
He closes his eyes and…

The concert hall is gone, its sophisticated splendor replaced by the pristine white of a hospital room. Gently, he sets the violin on a chair near the bed, slides the case out from underneath the bed and slips his violin into its home.   
He follows the same steps, he does everyday. He slips into his coat, ties his scarf into place, and bids farewell to the man in the hospital bed. He crouches and whispers something in the comatose patient’s ear, “Goodbye, John.”   
The next step is the hardest of them all. The last step is to keep the ever-present tears from sliding down his cheeks. I’m not really sure how, but he does it. He swallows the knot in his throat, blinks back streams of tears and strides away down the long white corridors.   
It’s in the cab that he allows himself to break. The cabbie pays no attention to the frail man sobbing in the backseat, because after all, he’s just the back of a head.   
It takes twenty minutes to travel from St. Bart’s Hospital to Baker Street, and for this he is grateful. In twenty minutes Sherlock Holmes can slide his apathetic mask back into place, and become the sociopath he is thought to be. But lately the facade has been crumbling, 

He is greeted at the door by the landlady. She begins to ask questions about his visit, but he cuts her sentence short with a tear soaked embrace. “Oh, Sherlock…” she whispers, her concern for the detective becoming more and more visible these days.   
“Should I make you a cuppa?” she calls over her shoulder on the way to the kitchen. He tries to protest, but she cuts him off, “What was that? Oh, well… Two sugars?” Mrs. Hudson hands him a mug and sits down in the client’s chair, she knows better than to use John’s armchair. “Now, let’s have a chat. What happened?” “Nothing, really.” His face concealed by the mug. “He’s still comatose, there’s still a bullet hole in his shoulder, there’s still only a forty percent chance that my best friend lives… You know, the usual.”   
“Now Sherlock, listen to me. John, he’ll be alright. In no time at all, you two will be dashing about the streets on one of your cases again.”   
“That’s not the problem.” he whispers. “Sorry, can you repeat that? I swear my hearing’s going, I should really see a-”   
“THIS WAS MY FAULT!” He roars, “I, I shouldn't taken him along. I knew it was going to be dangerous, I KNEW! Someone was going to get hurt, it had to play out that way. And, I took him along with me! No, of course bloody sentiment got the better of me! NO, I wanted COMPANY!”   
He climbs over the back of the armchair, teacup shattering in his wake. A few seconds later the door slams, “Oh my,” the landlady mutters, and begins to pluck the jagged shards from the rug.   
Silently, Mrs. Hudson slips out the door, leaving him alone with his dangerous thoughts.   
Inside the flat five cameras are hidden, one tucked into the bookshelf, one underneath a kitchen cupboard, another mounted by the bison skull, the fourth was on mounted on top of his wardrobe, but Sherlock hadn't found the last one. He’d looked everywhere, and it infuriated him that his brother was spying on him, like he did when they were children.   
He lined the cameras up on the kitchen table, took his stance and fired a bullet into each one of the lenses. Glass rocketed through the small kitchen, and the sweet sound of gunfire ripped through the dusty apartment. Sherlock then turned and discharged the remaining ammo into the fleur-de-lis wallpaper, making sure the smiley got a good peppering.   
His hands shook from the leftover adrenaline as he slid the handgun into its secret compartment in the desk. Quickly, he stood, his mistake. His vision went black, and his knees buckled. Dizziness quickly overthrew him and he crumpled to the floor… his blood sugar was at an all time low.   
Sherlock hadn't eaten a thing for days.   
The lasagna that Molly brought over sat untouched in the fridge next to a bowl of intestines he was meaning to experiment on. Mrs. Hudson used to bring in tea and biscuits, until she discovered the piles of stale biscuits and cold tea. Everyone offered their condolences, including Anderson, who offered a weak smile and cheap flowers. Those flowers had been dissolving in acid for the last eight hours. They were practically planning John’s funeral.   
When he came to, he could barely stand. His head pounded with such force he feared his skull might crack. Night had fallen, the clock read 9:38.   
Bracing himself against the desk, he managed to return to his feet. Bright lights danced before Sherlock’s eyes, rattling his vision.   
Food. He desperately needed to eat something. John’s voice echoed through his mind, scolding him for letting himself fall like this, for letting himself be so careless, for putting his best friend in a coma.   
“SHUT UP!!” Sherlock roared at the empty apartment. “Don’t you think I regret all of this?! I haven’t slept for days because, every time I close my eyes, I see you getting shot. Over and over on a never ending loop, John!” It was your fault. “I know! I KNOW! I KNOW! I. BLOODY. KNOW IT WAS MY FAULT! Yes, I HAVE LET YOU DOWN, John Hamish Watson, but believe me this ISN'T THE FIRST TIME!” Although his throat is raw from screaming, he continues.   
“I was gone for two bloody years to protect you, and look what’s become of it! I return home, INJURED nonetheless, and look at you! You were sleeping with a gun on your nightstand again! It was like post-Afghanistan all over again, all because your best friend jumped off a building!” Guilt trickled in, he shouldn't go down this path again. “JOHN!” He screams. “YOU DON’T LOVE ME, YOU LOVE ADRENALINE! You love a good fight, running through the streets, that’s the only thing that makes you stay! You weren't mourning me, you were mourning the loss of an adventure!” “John, I would die for you, dammit, I already did once. L-look, you, you worry, and I used to think it was because you loved me the way, I love you, but I’m just a barrier keeping you from civilian life! SO MAYBE, YOU CAN’T KEEP ME SAFE! MAYBE THAT BARRIER IS GOING TO COME CRASHING DOWN!!!” He pauses, is he really going to do it? Could he? He’s tried so many other times before, but something always stops him. Whether John is mourning him or not, it still pains him to watch his lover hurt.   
Tonight, he decided was to be what his friends called a “danger night”. He is silent as he cinches the cord around his bicep, but his mind is raging. His thoughts whirl at frightening speeds, each one echoing louder and louder through his skull. Panic chokes him.   
There is only one place free of red slices on his pale arms. In the crook of his elbow violet pools beneath fragile skin. He sucks in a bit of air and pricks the needle in. Immediately his thoughts quiet, and calm sweeps over him.   
Everything is gone. All his loud, slippery thoughts vanish from his mind. For once, his mind is absolutely silent. He stops shivering. The ever-present goosebumps melt away into his red striped arms. For the first time that week a smile graces Sherlock’s lips and he rests his head against the cool lip of the bathtub and lets the drug take him far, far away.


	2. Becoming Aware

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A visit to his new therapist brings new truth.

Seven blissful hours pass before he awakes.   
Someone is tapping on his arm softly. “Sherlock? Sherlock, darling, wake up, please.” He’s greeted by the fuzzy outline of his landlady. “Hudders? Am I still high?” He mumbles, his throat severely hoarse. “No, love, I’m here.” She replies gently, “Come on now, let’s get you into something warmer, you’ll catch your death!”   
She reaches for his hands to help him out of the grimy bathtub, shock settling on her kindly face when she catches sight of the half empty syringe. “Oh, dear, how much did you take, love?” “Not nearly enough.” He groans.   
Sherlock gingerly plucks the syringe from his arm and limps into the living room. It’s the same routine as always, he’ll sit on the couch trying his best to carry out a conversation, while she makes tea and wraps him up in a quilt. She’ll sit in on the couch sipping her tea, and asking delicate questions. They’ll talk for about a half hour, because that’s all poor Sherlock can handle.   
Sherlock had just settled into his infamous armchair when a firm knock echoed through the room. “I’ll get it.” Mrs. Hudson chimed.   
“Gregory!” She exclaimed, “Did you get my message?” He nodded solemnly, “Um, yes, the one you sent yesterday?” “Have you scheduled the appointment?” Mrs. Hudson whispers. “Thursday, at four.” Came the detective’s reply.   
“Hello Sherlock.” The detective smiled one of those smiles that made Mycroft weak, and took his place on the sofa. The furniture had been rearranged to make somewhat of a semicircle, with Sherlock’s armchair at the head.   
“Heroine?” Lestrade says over a sip of tea. Sherlock nods. “Love,” Mrs. Hudson adds, “I've been thinking, and well, Gregory and I-” “Gregory?” Sherlock interrupts. “Detective Lestrade.” The landlady clarifies. “So that’s his name.” Sherlock sighs. “Well, Lestrade and I have been talking about having you see a psychiatrist.” “You want me to see a shrink?!” Sherlock exclaims, exasperation dripping from each word. “Oh no, darling, I’ve found you an amazing psychiatrist, Dr. Peters, he’s brilliant and we think he’ll be able to help. Oh, he also happened to be John’s therapist when he had that bit of PTSD.”   
“No.” Sherlock declares, “I don’t want anything to do with that man or his therapist.” Lestrade slams his teacup on the side table with surprising force. “Sherlock, you’re being a bloody idiot! Look at you! You never sleep, except when you’re high! You never eat! Have you seen yourself recently? YOU ARE ON THE VERGE OF DEATH!!” He roars, taking them all by surprise, “Do you ever wonder why you've got these terrible headaches, and why you’re hearing voices, do you Sherlock?” Lestrade pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs, “Look, we um, we made a deal back at the Yard. If you can start seeing a therapist, and recovering we- I won’t press charges.” Sherlock looks up from his half empty teacup, “Press charges? What for?” “I dunno, substance abuse, for starters! Last time I checked, the drugs under your bathroom sink aren't exactly legal!”   
Sherlock sighed, he had a point. Getting arrested would do nothing to soothe his mother’s nerves and Mycroft’s worried looks. But, still a psychiatrist? Someone to sit behind a desk and ask him all sorts of questions, and jot down notes while they psychoanalyzed him. And although Sherlock knew his health and his mental faculties were frail, he’d prefer not to be treated like it. “Fine. I’ll do it, when’s my appointment?” “Thursday at four.” 

 

The smooth oak door read Dr. William Peters MD. Before Sherlock had a chance to knock, he was greeted by a tall man with a warm smile. Dr. William Peters had soft brown eyes, and reddish hair neatly combed back and gelled. “You must be Sherlock.” He said coolly. All Sherlock could do was nod.   
The doctor directed him to a leather sofa, and took a seat behind his large polished desk. “I’m Dr. Peters, but you may call me William if you like.” He smiled again, and extended his hand. Sherlock took it and prayed that the doctor didn't notice the multiple red slits crisscrossing his wrists.   
“Sherlock Holmes, that’s a name I don’t hear too often anymore.” William mused, “What a shame.” Sherlock refused to reply, and instead focused all his energy on memorizing the book titles in the doctors vast bookcase. Applied Psychology, The Brain and Emotional Trauma, Dream Psychology by Sigmund Freud, Social Phobia and Other Anxiety Disorders, A Guide To OCD…   
“Sherlock. I asked you a question.” The doctor chimed in. “And I refused to answer it.” The sociopath snapped back. “Fair enough,” Dr. Peters sighed, “I've been informed that you refer to yourself as a “high functioning sociopath”, would you explain to me what that’s about?”   
That’s it. Sherlock decided in that instant that Dr. Peters was joining Anderson on his personal enemy list. “Dr. Peters, I've been informed that you refer to yourself as a “professional”, would you explain to me what that’s about?” He made sure to put extra emphasis on the air quotes around the words medical professional.   
Dr. Peters pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “They told me you’d be difficult.”   
“Tell me about John.” The doctor picked up a pen and began absentmindedly doodling on a notepad. Something shifted from deep within him. He was doodling. John used to do that. Napkins at restaurants, the backside of spare envelopes, blank corners on the bills from their mailbox. To him, each one was a canvas, and within the space of 10 minutes they would be covered in ink.   
John was an artist, that much he knew. But he kept his talent locked away. The way he tugged the sleeves of his sweater down to hide the graphite smudges on his wrists, or the paint caked under his nails, he was so easy to read. They never talked much, but Sherlock knew everything about him.   
“He was my best friend.” Sherlock snapped out of his daydream. “He wore soft sweaters and took his coffee without any sugar. He was a veteran who never recovered from the shock of war, and he suffered from terrible nightmares. And he was really fond of those James Bond movies.” The detective wasn't aware of the gentle smile that now graced his features. But the smile lasted for a mere moment when he realized he was speaking in past tense… without realizing it.   
“I miss him so much.” Sherlock seized a throw pillow and gripped it with white knuckles, “And do you want to know what’s sick?! He’s not dead, yet I’m already mourning. You heard me, I was speaking in past tense!”   
“I’ve seen this before.” Dr. Peters finished the last leaf on a rose bush and gingerly set the pen down. “You’re telling yourself that his death is inevitable, so your mind is responding as if he has died.” He paused for a second for the information to sink in. “And by what your landlady has told me, you’re not responding well. But anyone could see that, by the state of your wrists.”   
Anger knotted in his stomach, and he constricted the pillow against his ribs. “Doctor.” He muttered between clenched teeth, “Do. You. Have. The. Time.” Who did this Dr. Peters think he was anyways? He would rather be arrested than spend another second with this vile creature.   
“Oh! Right, it’s just about time.” Dr. Peters announced without glancing at his watch. He was a terrible liar. “I’ll see you next Thursday, Sherlock.” He smiled a fake smile and escorted his patient into the empty hallway.   
It didn’t matter that they had 24 minutes left in the session, Dr. Peters could feel a storm brewing and decided to get out while he could. 

Sherlock decided to get the crying out of the way as soon as possible. He knew he would cry eventually, and he’d rather cry on the subway surrounded by strangers than in front of Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade.   
Sitting alone on the subway, he sobbed as quietly as he could. His lungs screamed for air, and his throat ached. (Quiet sobbing required minimal oxygen.) It was alright, he’d done this a thousand times. It was at St. Vincent’s that he first learned the trick; eleven year old roommates hate having their sleep interrupted.   
The car was empty except for a young girl reading an issue of National Geographic. Her face was aglow with wonder as she turned the pages of… Sherlock leaned over to get a better view of the cover. The titled boasted articles about the theory of evolution. Green ear-buds were jammed tightly into her ears, “Good,” he thought to himself. He could cry a little louder and allow himself a little more oxygen.   
Sherlock. A voice echoed through Sherlock’s head. He forgot about sobbing and oxygen altogether, then it dawned on him what he’d just heard. That voice, he’d heard it before. It was John’s voice, laced with worry.   
He knew what he had to do.   
He snatched his coat off the seat next to him, and scanned the subway map. Pennington, Stop #5. The subway rolled to a stop, and he strides towards the door, brushing away tears.   
“Follow your dreams, trench-coat man!” The girl with the magazine called out. So she had been listening! Sherlock couldn't tell if this was good or bad.   
Fifteen minutes later he was standing at the front desk of St. Bart’s Hospital.


	3. Things To Admit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We all knew it would happen eventually.

He strode up to the front desk, “Sherlock Hol--”   
“I know who you are, sweetheart.” She smiled sympathetically and nudged her glasses up the bridge of her nose.   
“Well then, I’ll be in Room 314.” He said and began his walk towards the elevator.   
Ground Floor, Floor 1, Floor 2, Floor 3. The elevator lurched to a stop. The detective inhaled deeply before stepping into the pristine hallway.   
Soon enough, he was face to face the door, hand resting on the doorknob undecidedly. He had to do this. He had waited long enough.   
He cleared his throat before entering the room, “John.” He spoke, still unaccustomed to the silence that always followed. You can do this.   
Sherlock pulled up a chair and took the patient’s hand. “I have to clear a few things up with you.” He whispered, for after all he was only talking to himself. “J-John, this is my fault. And you should know how s-sorry I am.” Tears soon splashed onto the immaculate sheets. “I haven’t been handling this well, and I know you wouldn’t like how I’ve been treating myself.” He paused and kissed John’s hand, the simple sweetness of the gesture bringing on a whole new wave of emotional pain. “I miss you… so very much.” There it was. He had been meaning to say those six words for so long.   
Sobs racked his frail frame and he collapsed, head in his hands. What was he becoming? Not even the esteemed Dr. Peters had the answer to that question.   
“John,” he began, unsure if he was ready to say what was on his mind, “If you don’t make it, I’ll never forgive myself. On the other hand, if you do, we’ve got to discuss a few things.” Guilt swept over him, stealing his breath. What was he saying?! All he wanted was John back!   
“Am I just a source of adrenaline?” A mere whisper. “I love you, you know I do, but if I’m just a source of adventure, I’m afraid we can’t go on.”   
It wasn’t until this moment that Sherlock could say he’d experienced heartbreak.   
He wasn’t expecting this, no, not at all. Ice cold pain rippled through his veins, it sped up his heart rate and stole his breath. He was left speechless by his lover’s bedside while he listened to his final tie to reality break. It was the sound of shattering glass, it was the ringing of great church bells, and the tension filled whine of a violin. It was the crashing of waves in a storm, it was loud and chaotic and it hurt so, so much. Sherlock clasped his hands over his ears and fell to his knees. Hot tears streamed down his cheeks, and his head throbbed.   
He had no reason to stay.   
Before he believed with every cell of his being that John loved him. The way he leaned into his touch, that brilliant smiled that graced his features whenever Sherlock was near. It was the stupid simple things that used to lead him to conclude that he was in love. When John would stroke his hair when he woke up strangled by nightmare-induced fear. When he straightened his tie and kissed him before he had to give his speech at Mycroft’s wedding. He called Sherlock “darling” and held his hand, he curled into Sherlock and held onto him tightly whenever he took his turn struggling through nightmares. He’d make him coffee and text him when work was slow, he’d find sheet music for Sherlock to play through.   
It was all a lie.   
He doesn’t love you. The demons from the depths of Sherlock’s mind shriek. He was afraid to return to normality, to civilian life. Adrenaline was his drug, and you were just the dealer. Nothing more. He figured if he kissed you softly and held your hand, you’d stay and keep feeding his addiction.   
Sherlock tried to quiet the voices, but it was no use. He brushed off his coat and stood stiffly, unsure what his next move should be. He bent and kissed John’s forehead, trying to translate all the pain and confusion he was feeling into that last, simple gesture. “Goodbye Joh--” His throat was too tight for him to finish his sentence.   
He won’t miss you, you know. The voices echo and bounce around his skull the entire way home. He’ll miss the rush of adventure, the excitement to break up the monotony of civilian life, but no, he won’t miss you. “Please… Stop.” Sherlock gasped through flowing tears. He never loved you. “Please! I’m begging you!” Sherlock sobbed. Freak. Freak. Freak. Freak. Freak. Freak. Freak.   
Icy fingers of rain slid down the back of his coat, his shirt stuck to his skin. He was too sad to notice. Too sad to notice he was soaked to the bone by the time he should face to face with 221B’s polished black door. He stumbled upstairs and threw his drenched clothes in the bathtub, all the while his mind was rubbing itself raw. Freak. Freak. Freak. Freak. Freak. Freak. Freak.   
In the beginning of this depressing episode, he would wrap his wrists in gauze to keep from harming himself. Now the only thing holding him back is lack of available skin.   
Sleeping pills in the bathroom. There’s no one to stop him now, Mrs. Hudson is visiting her ailing brother, Mycroft stopped calling a while ago. He sees no reason to stay.   
Five minutes later and he’s staring down at a handful of pills. 10 beautiful white capsules to take him away from all this. To take him away from voices in his head, from beautiful veterans who lied to his face. It’ll all be over soon. A voice reminds him.   
Note, you need to leave a note. It’s the most helpful thing his demons have ever spoken to him.   
On the back of an envelope he scrawls his last communion.   
This is for the man who loved adventure more than he loved me. I’ve always been staring into the abyss, but the last few weeks have pushed me closer and closer to the edge. To be brief, I’m tired and I’ve been awake for far too long. It’s time for me to go to sleep.   
Goodbye forever,   
Sherlock”  
He dry-swallowed the pills and curls up in his bed. The sheets still smell like John, and he’s grateful he won’t have to endure pain like this for much longer. Redbeard, he’d get to see him soon. For the first time in weeks he smiled, really smiled.   
The pills kicked in quickly and he was gone. 

Or maybe not...


	4. The Aftermath Begins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Sherlock now hospitalized, everyone's learning to cope differently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's so short babes, but fear not, the next chapter should be quite a long one.

It was Lestrade who found him.   
He called to ask if Sherlock was attending therapy, and when there was no reply he couldn’t ignore the sinking feeling that something was very wrong. He’d sent seven frantic texts to Mycroft asking if he’d heard from his brother, when Mycroft replied that he hadn’t, he’d taken one of the Yard’s cars, driving 30 miles well over the speed limit.   
“Sherlock!” He burst through the door. Please, please, let him be okay. Sure, Sherlock was annoying, often times he made Lestrade’s job ten times harder than it had to be, but if something were to happen to him, he wasn’t sure how he’d cope.   
“Sherlock, please!” The apartment appeared to be empty. He charged into Sherlock’s bedroom, and what he found made him stop dead in his tracks.   
Sherlock lying on the neatly made bed, next to an envelope covered in ink. “NO!” The inspector screamed and seized the envelope. Suicide note. Was he too late?! He searched for a pulse and found a very weak one. Still alive. He let out a small sigh of relief.   
With shaking hands he dug his cell out of his pocket and punched in the three digits he hoped would save Sherlock’s life. 

A mere hour later Lestrade was staring at a vending machine in the hallway of a hospital across town. The machine spit out his money for the third time, when a voice broke his train of thought. “Gregory?” He turned his attention away from his crumpled cash. “Mycroft.” He sighed and ran towards his husband, enveloping him in a tight embrace.   
This was the first time he had ever seen Mycroft Holmes break down in tears, and it was a bit unsettling. He was always so strong, so sure of his place in the world, so to find him broken down in Lestrade’s arms was testament to how terrible the situation was.   
“I don’t know what to do.” Mycroft whispered.   
“None of us do, sweetheart.” The inspector took Mycroft’s face in his hands and gently kissed his forehead.   
Mycroft straightened the small goldfish pin on his husband's tie. "We had tickets to the opera, didn't we?"   
"How can you think about the opera when your younger brother is dying?" Lestrade snapped.   
"When you're constantly worried about someone, you have to learn to think about something else, anything else, or else you'll go mad." Mycroft replied dryly.   
“So, about the opera.” Lestrade responded, and his husband let out a sigh.   
“ I do believe Angelo Ciotti was starring tonight.”   
“Really? Remind me which cast he’s from again.”   
“I think he’s with Cast A.”  
“Shame, I was looking forward to it. He’s one of my favorites you know.”  
“Mmmm, don’t I know it.”


	5. Waking Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Waking up from a nightmare to find another one beginning.

Molly:  
April 14th, 5:16 am, Sherlock came back to us.   
The phone rang, it was Mrs. Hudson proclaiming the truth. I cannot explain how relieved I was.   
He’s so reckless, I’m surprised he’s lasted this long. And he was so sick. It killed me to see him like this. "Take care of yourself!" I wanted to scream and shake him. "Don't you know how amazing you are?" But I try not to dwell on things like this, it only makes me sad.   
When John was hospitalized, he stopped functioning altogether. He was in shock for the first week, not speaking, barely eating, he just locked his door and shut out the world. Week two, that’s when he fully realized the true nature of the situation. Lestrade stayed with him that week, to keep him from doing anything too drastic. Lestrade would make him wrap his wrists in gauze, tape, anything really, to keep him from hurting himself.   
He wholeheartedly believes that it was his fault. He claims that he was aware of the possible fatalities, yet he still let John come along. I don’t believe that. It’s just his depression talking. Anyways, don’t they say depression and intelligence go hand in hand?  
It scares me. To be looking from the outside for once, to see suffering. I've never been more worried about one human being before in my entire life. How can he not see what we all do? Soft, dark eyes, strong features, and he’s so intelligent it’s hurting him. Good mercy he's glorious, and I can't let him think otherwise.   
But I'm a colleague, nothing more. 

Sherlock:  
When he came to, the sun was just beginning to rise, casting streaks of pale yellow across the London skyline.   
He sat there for an hour trying to figure out what had happened.   
He was in a hospital, that much he knew, but why? He glanced down at the demolished skin on his wrists and it all and flooding back.   
Pills, note, suicide, John.   
He knew exactly what had happened. You couldn't even kill yourself properly. A voice in the back of his mind muses. And for once he knew the voices were right, he couldn't even commit suicide properly.   
Lestrade leaned against the doorframe. "I found you in your apartment." So it was him! "Why, Sherlock?" The inspector hadn't slept in days, it was obvious. "I found you a therapist, you could've recovered! There’s always a way out! You could’ve called me, I could’ve tried to help you out of this!” He sighed, “Three days. You’ve been out for three days.”   
“We need to figure out something. I’m sorry, but you can’t live your life like this! It’s got to stop.” Lestrade looked utterly defeated. 

Sherlock spent the next two days in the hospital. During the day he watched soap operas, and made deductions about the staff. At night he was lulled away by hazy, artificial sleep.   
At the end of the three week episode, he was released. He arrived at the hospital wearing a bloodstained dress shirt, he departed in a faded T Shirt and sweatpants. Returning home was even worse.   
His apartment had been ransacked and spotlessly cleaned. Anything remotely similar to a weapon was confiscated, as were his science experiments and his skull. It was entirely loathsome.   
He would be treated like a wild animal. Everyone spoke to him in low, gentle voices as if they were afraid he might detonate at any moment. When he went out, he knew Lestrade sent someone to trail him. They didn’t trust him enough to make a stop at the library. As if something as simple as returning a few books could cause his downfall.   
It continued like this until May 22nd, 2:30 pm.   
Then the attention shifted away from him completely. 

 

John:  
Bright flashing lights, beeping machines, doctors yelling to one another. These are the first things John Hamish Watson noticed when he rejoined the living.   
He gradually became aware that someone was speaking to him, although he couldn’t make out what they were saying. Someone shined a flashlight into his eyes, checking his pupils, while another nameless figure took his pulse.   
“John?” A doctor’s blurry face eventually came into focus, “Can you hear me?” A woman with loads of dark curls asked. John nodded in response. “Good, good! He’s responding nicely!” She scribbled something onto a clipboard.   
“Why don’t you give Mr. Holmes a call?” She hollered to a nurse.   
Sherlock. The name flitted through John’s mind, causing a glowing warmth to fill his veins. He smiled and leaned back into the sterile pillows, determined to wait for Mr. Holmes to arrive.


	6. Healing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Haha you'll see.

John:

As predicted,  Sherlock came.  The time was 4:56 pm, the date was May 22nd, in the year 2015, at St. Bart’s hospital, on Thornton Street, in London, in England, in the UK, in Europe, in the Eastern Hemisphere, in the Northern Hemisphere, in Planet Earth, in the Solar System, in the Milky Way Galaxy, in the universe.  Specifics are important because what’s about to happen next is really important. 

Before Sherlock left he was briefed on how to approach the situation.  His damaged wrists were carefully wrapped in Ace Bandages, and hidden by the sleeves a soft, black sweater.  “You’re not going to wear that silly trenchcoat!” Lestrade groaned as he watched him rifle through his closet.  He was dressed neatly, and instructed on topics to talk about. 

“Whatever you do, you are not to mention the following topics,” Mycroft instructed, “One: murders or any sort of detective work.  Two: the accident that landed him in the bloody hospital.  Three: why  you  were recently in the hospital, or why you look so pale and sick.  Four: anything emotionally challenging.  He just came out of a coma, Sherlock.  Do try to be gentle.” 

In Sherlock’s defense he did try to be gentle. 

4:51 pm.  He walked through the pristine hallways, tugging the sleeves of his sweater down in an attempt to conceal the stark white bandages.  Room 314 stared him down, but this visit would be a lot different than the last.  Turns the door handle, takes a deep breath and steps inside.  

Immediately pure guilt washes over him when he hears John whisper his name, “Sherlock.”  Two syllables that set him off. 

The last time he heard John’s voice was in his nightmares.  It was the last thing John said before he blacked out.  He screamed those two syllables when bullet met bone, and whispered them as the numbing tides of shock swept over him.  Sherlock hadn’t forgotten. 

“Hello.”  Comes Sherlock’s reply.  They prepared him on what  not  to say, they never told him what he could say.  He pulls up a chair and sits there in silence, mind racing.  

“I’m sorry!”  They both blurt out in unison, as if they were reading each other's mind. 

“I’m the reason you’re here, you needn’t apologize to me!” Sherlock snaps. 

“You were suffering!” John gasped.

“You don’t know that!”

“I know you.” 

More silence. 

“Tell me you took care of yourself, tell me you tried to get through it.  And don’t say that I don’t know what it’s like, I went through two years of this.”  John sighed. 

Sherlock was appalled.  "Y-you have no clue what the last three months have done to me!" His voice quivered with anger.  "Sure, you had to stick it out for two years, but you never really missed me, not at least the way I missed you." There it was, out in the open. 

"Sherlock, what're you talking about? I missed you terribly, I didn't sleep at night! Two years, that's how long it took me to adjust to the fact that I'd lost you!" John looked devastated, guilt impaled sherlock. 

"You missed adrenaline! The thrill of the chase. You weren't mourning me, you were mourning the loss of a bloody adventure." Sherlock said, his voice terrifyingly calm. 

"You think that's all you are to me? A supplier of thrills? Sherlock, you're so much, much more. Why can't you see how much I love you?" John tentatively took his hand, and flinched when he saw the corner of a bandage peeking out of Sherlock's sleeve. 

"Sherlock." Anger and confusion clouded in his eyes. "What on earth is this?" John pushed back his sleeves, revealing his arms, bandaged up to the elbows.  "No." He whispered in shock when he gazed upon the red stripes the bandages concealed. 

"Tell me you slept." John spoke, his voice rigid with concern. Sherlock shook his head in reply.  Guilt tore him apart mercilessly.  "Did you eat? Talk to someone? At least tell me you tried to get help."  Tears welled up in Sherlock's eyes.  "No, not really.  I just sort of f-fell apart." He wills himself not to cry, but it's no use. 

"Drugs?" John presses.  "I'm sorry." Sherlock whimpers, "Please John, you have to understand, they were attacking me!" 

"Who was?!" 

"The voices in my head.  They're constantly tearing me apart, I had to quiet them somehow!" Sherlock's pleading now, begging John.  

"How. Far. Did. You. Go." John grits his teeth, he grips a fistful of blankets with white knuckles. 

Sherlock remains silent. 

"I asked you a question." John states coldly. 

"He was hospitalized last week for attempted suicide." A doctor interjects, causing them both to turn their attention to the woman at the door.  "Sherlock Holmes, isn't it? Yeah, sleeping pills, nearly overdosed. I believe one of the guys at the Yard found him.  Lestrade? I think.  Anyways I'm just here to check up on you, how's the medication working out?" She smiled cheerily and fiddles with John's IV bag.  "You guys have a nice day, and hey, I hear the cafeteria has amazing pie!" And with that, she was gone. 

"What?" John whispers, all traces of anger gone. "Sherlock, is this true?" His voice breaks.  Sherlock's silence confirms his worst fears. 

"Darling, I--" John begins but he's cut off by a kiss. 

"Please John, I was desperate.  At the time it seemed like that was the only way out of this nightmare." 

Sherlock moves to sit on the edge of the bed.  Gently, he sits up next to John. He reaches for his hand grips it tightly.  "I'm so sorry, I did this to you."  

"Sherlock don't, this wasn't your fault." John replies. 

"I knew this was a possible outcome, and yet I let you come!  I let you get hurt and I have no idea why." The detective confesses. 

"I know why.  Sherlock, I hate being without you.  It is an honor to be by your side." Tears stream down John's face and he grips his lover's hand even tighter. 

"I can't explain how much I've missed you."  He brushes his tears away and strokes his hair.  "You know I love you, right? So much it hurts." 

"I'll be here. I promise I'll always be right here, by your side." He snuggles in closer to the detective and rests his head on his shoulder. 

Lestrade will walk in a hour later to find John asleep on Sherlock's shoulder and Sherlock out cold. 


	7. The End, Or Something Like That.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He'll get better.

He never stopped having nightmares. Every night it was the same, John screaming as the bullet made contact, telling Sherlock where to keep pressure, to call 999, and finally him losing consciousness. In his nightmares John always died.   
But waking up was different. When he woke up, John was there to hold him and quiet his fears. To stroke his hair and whisper softly to him until he fell back to sleep. 

However, his scars began to heal. The angry red slashes, gradually faded away into neat white lines. But he could never forget where they’d come from and who’d created them. The physical scars would heal, but the mental damage never would.   
The demons would always be in the back of his mind, commenting and critiquing, but with John at his side, he could ignore them. 

Once, he believed that crashing down was inevitable. But as time ticks on, it becomes clearer and clearer that rebuilding wouldn't be so hard.


End file.
